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And every height, and every sullen depth, Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams : Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ?
And all the everlasting cataracts,

Together had he left his mother fair
And all the headlong torrents far and near, And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,
Mantled before in darkness and huge shade, And in the morning twilight wander'd forih
Now saw the light and made it terrible.

Beside the osiers of a rivulet,
It was Hyperion -a granite peak

Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.
His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd to view The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars
The misery his brilliance had betray'd

Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush To the most hateful seeing of itself.

Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle Golden his hair of short Numidian curl,

There was no covert, no retired cave Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade

Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves, In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk Though scarcely heard in many a green recess Of Memnon's image at the set of sun

He listen d, and he wept, and his bright tears To one who travels from the dusking East : Went trickling down the golden bow he held. Sighs, 100, as mournful as that Memnon's harp, Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood, He utter'd, while his hands, contemplative, While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by He press'd together, and in silence stood.

With solemn step an awful Goddess came, Despondence seized again the fallen Gods

And there was purport in her looks for him, At sight of the dejected King of Day,

Which he with eager guess began to read And many hid their faces from the light:

Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said : But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes

“ How camest thou over the unfooted sea ? Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare, Or hath that antique mien and robed form Uprose läpetus, and Creus too,

Moved in these vales invisible till now? And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strole Sure I have heard ibose vestments sweeping o'er To where he towered on his eminence.

The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone There those four shouted forth old Saturn's name; In cool mid forest. Surely I have traced Hyperion from the peak loud answered, “ Saturn !" The rustle of those ample skirts about Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods,

These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers
In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods Lift up their heads, as still the whisper passd.
Gave from their hollow throats the name of "Saturn !" Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before,

And their eternal calm, and all that face,
Or I have dreain'd."— Yes," said the supreme shape

• Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,

Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast

Unwearied ear of the whole universe
Listen'u in pain and pleasure at ihe birth
of such new funeful wonder. Is’t not strange

That thou shoulılsi weep, so gifted ? Tell me, youth Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace,

What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad Amazed were those Titans utterly.

When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs leave them, Muse! O leave them to their woes! To one who in this lonely isle hath been For thou art weak to sing such tumulis dire : The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, A solitary sorrow best befits

From the young day when first thy infant hand Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.

Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arın Leave them, O Muse! for thou anon wilt find Could bend that bow heroic to all times. Many a fallen old Divinity

Show thy heari's secret in an ancient Power Wandering in vain about bewilder'd shores. Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp,

For prophecies of thee, and for the sake And not a wind of heaven but will breathe or loveliness new-born." -- A pollo then, In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute;

With sudden seruliny and gluomless eyes, For lo ! 't is for the Father of all verse.

Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue, Throbb’d with the syllables.-“ Mnemosyne! Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, Thy name is on my tongue. I know not how; And let the clouds of even and of morn

Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest ? Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills;

Why should I strive to show what from thy lips Let the red wine within the goblet boil,

Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, dark, Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd shells, And painful vile oblivion seuls my eyes : On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn

I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, Through all their labyrinths; and let the maid Until a melancholy numbs my limbs; Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, Chief isle of the embower'd Cyclades.

Like one who once had wings.-0 why should I Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green,

Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, Yields to my step aspirant? why should I In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song, Spurn the green lurt as hateful to my feet? And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade: Goddess benign! point forth some unknown thing, A pollo is once more the golden theme !

Are there not other regions than this isle ?

What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun! And deify me, as if some blithe wine,
And the most patient brilliance of the moon! Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk,
And stars by thousands! Point me out the way And so become immortal.”—Thus the God,
To any one particular beauteous star,

While his enkindled eyes, with level glance
And I will fit into it with my lyre,

Beneath his white soft temples, sted fast kept And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss. Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power? Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity

All the immortal fairness of his limbs : Makes this alarm in the elements,

Most like the struggle at the gate of death ; While I here idle listen on the shores

Or liker still to one who should take leave In fearless yet in aching ignorance?

of pale immortal death, and with a pang O tell me, lonely Goddess! by thy harp,

As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse
That waileth every morn and eventide,

Die into life: so young Apollo anguish'd ;
Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves ! His very hair, his golden tresses famed
Mute thou remainesi-Muie? yet I can read Kept undulation round his eager neck,
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face:

During the pain, Mnemosyne upheld
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me,

Her arms as one who prophesied.–At length
Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Apollo shriek'd ;-and lo! from all his limbs
Majesties, sovran voices, agonies,

Creations, and destroyings, all at once
Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,

Miscellaneous Poems.

What more felicity can fall to creature
Than to enjoy delight with liberty ?

Fate of the Butterfly.--SPENSER.


A lille noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves :

For not the fainiest motion could be seen

of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.

There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, Glory and loveliness have pass'd away ;

To peer about upon variety; For if we wander out in early morn,

Far round the horizon's crysial air to skim, No wreaihed incense do we see upborne

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; Into the east to meet the smiling day;

To picture out the quaint and curious bending No crowd of nymphs sofi-voiced and young and gay, or a fresh woodland alley never-ending : In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves The shrine of Flora in her early May.

I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free But there are left delights as high as these;

As though the fanning wings of Mercury And I shall ever bless my destiny,

Had play'd upon my heels : I was light-hearted. That in a time when under pleasant trees

And many pleasures to my vision started; Pan is no longer soughi, I feel a free,

So I straightway began to pluck a posy A leafy luxury, seeing I could please,

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. With these poor ofle rings, a man like thee

A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them;

Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them;
Places of nestling green for poets made.

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
Slory of Rimini. And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them

Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
I stood tiptoe upon a little hill,

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride A filbert-hedge with wild-brier overtwined,
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,

And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, Upon their summer thrones; there loo should be Had not yet lost their starry diadems

The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. That wiih a score of light green brethren shoots

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, From the quaint mossiness of aged roots :
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept Round which is heard a spring-head of clear water
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters,

The spreading bluebells; it may haply mourn What next ? A tuft of evening primroses,
That such fair clusters should be rudely tom O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ;
From their fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep
By infant hands, left on the path to die.

But that 't is ever startled by the leap

Or buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting Open afresh your round of starry folds,

Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting; Ye ardent marigolds!

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
For great Apollo bids

Coming into the blue with all her light.
That in these days your praises should be sung O Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight
On many harps which he has lately strung; of this fair world and all its gentle livers;
And when again your dewiness he kisses, Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streamua
So haply when I rove in some far vale,

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, His mighty voice may come upon the gale. Lover of loneliness, and wandering,

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: Thee must I praise above all other glories With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, That sipile us on to tell delightful stories. And ta per fingers catching at all things,

For what has made the sage or poet write To bind them all about with tiny rings.

But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
Linger awhile upon some bending planks

In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, We see the waving of the mountain pine ;
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : And when a tale is beautifully staid,
They will be found sofier than ring-dove's cooings. We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
How silent comes the water round that bend ; When it is moving on luxurious wings,
Not the minutest whisper does it send

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings :
To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; Why you might read two sonnels, ere they reach O'er-head we see the jasmine and sweet-brier, To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;

While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Charms us at once away from all our troubles : Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, So that we feel uplified from the world, To taste the luxury of sunny beams

Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curld Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle So felt he, who first told how Psyche went With their own sweet delight, and ever nesile On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment; Their silver bellies on the pelibly sand !

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips If you but scantily hold out the hand,

First touch'd ; what amorous and fondling nips That very instant not one will remain ;

They gave each other's cheeks; with all their sigla But turn your eye, and they are there again. And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes : The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, The silver lamp,—the ravishment-the wonder, And cool themselves among the emerald tresses ; The darkness—loneliness,-the fearful thunder: The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, Their woes gone by, and both to heaven up-flown. And moisture, that the bowery green may live : To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. So keeping up an interchange of favors,

So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside, Like good men in the truth of their behaviors. That we might look into a forest wide, Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades From low-hung branches : little space they stop; Coming with softest rustle through the trees; But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; And garlands woven, of flowers wild and sweet, Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:

Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.

Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. Were I in such a place, I sure should pray Poor nymph,—poor Pan,—how he did weep, to find That naught less sweet might call my thoughts away, Naught but a lovely sighing of the wind T'han the soft rustle of a maiden's gown

Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
Fanning away the dandelion's down:

Full of sweet desolation-balmy pain.
Than the light music of her nimble toes
l'atting against the sorrel as she goes.
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught What first inspired a bard of old to sing
Playing in all her innocence of thought!

Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ?
O let me lead her gently o'er the brook,

In some delicious ramble, he had found
Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look ; A little space, with boughs all woven round:
O let me for one moment touch her wrist; And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Let me one moment to her breathing list;

Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool
And as she leaves me may she often turn

The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburn. Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.

And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness :
Deaf to light Zephyrus, it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot ;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale.

1. To see the brightness in each other's eyes ;
And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loosed in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses
That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses ·
Was there a poet born ?—But now no more-
My wandering spirit must no further soar.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,

Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight ? to him bringing Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry ;
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.
From out the niddle air, from Howery nests,

Not like the formal crest of latter days, And from the pillowy silkiness that rests

But bending in a thousand graceful ways; Full in the speculation of the stars.

So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;

Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Into some wondrous region he had gone,

Could charm them into such an attitude. To search for thee, divine Endymion!

We must think rather, that in playful mood,

Some mountain brecze had turnid its chief delight He was a Poet, sure a lover too,

To show this wonder of its gentle might.
Who stood on Lalmus' top, what time there blew Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;

For while I muse, the lance points slantingly
And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet
A hymn trom Dian's Temple ; while upswelling. Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling. From the worn top of some old battlement
But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent;
Though she stood siniling o'er the sacrifice, And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,
'The poet wept at her so piteous fate,

Wraps round her ample rube with happy trembling Wept that such beauty should be desolate : Sometimes when the good knight his rest could take, So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests,

And th' half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests.
Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen Ah! shall I ever tell ils cruelty,
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen! When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye,
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,

And his tremendous hand is grasping it,
So every tale, does this sweet tale of ihine. And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?
O for three words of honey, that I might

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, Telt but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Leaps to the honors of a tournament,

And makes the gazers round about the ring
Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ?
Phæbus au hile delay'd his mighty wheels,

No, no! this is far off:-then how shall I
And turn’d to smile upon thy bashful eyes, Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.

Which linger yet about long Gothic arches,
The evening weather was so bright, and clear, In dark-green ivy, and among wild larches ?
That men of health were of unusual cheer; How sing the splendor of the revelries,
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call,

When butts of wine are drank off to the lees? Or young Apollo on the pedestal:

And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, And lovely women were as fair and warm, Beneath the shade of stately banneral, As Venus looking sideways in alarm.

Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ? The breezes were ethereal, and pure,

Where ye may see a spur in bloody field, And crept through half-closed lattices to cure Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd sleep, Round the wide hall, and show their happy fuces, And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens, Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burnt with thirst- Like those fair stars that iwinkle in the heavens. ing,

Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry : Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting: Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by ? And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight Or their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight; Rein in the swelling of his ample might? Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and stare, Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind, And on their placid foreheads part the hair. And come like a clear sunrise to my mind; Young men and maidens at each other gazed, And always does my heart with pleasure dance With hands held back, and motionless, amazed When I think on thy noble countenance :

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Where never yet was aught more earthly seen The little chapel, with the cross above
Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green. Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove,
Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully

That on the windows spreads his featners light,
Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh

And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.
My daring steps : or if thy tender care,
Thus startled unaware,
Be jealous that the foot of other wight

Green-tufted islands casting their soft shades
Should madly follow that bright path of light

Across the lake ; sequester'd leafy glades, Traced by thy loved Libertas; he will speak,

That through the dimness of their twilight show And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;

Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow That I will follow with due reverence,

of the wild cat's-eyes, or the silvery stems And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.

of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which hems Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope

A little brook. The youth had long been viewing To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope:

These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the towers; The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caugti Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.

A trumpet's silver voice. Ah! it was fraugbt
With many joys for him: the warder's ken
Had found white coursers prancing in the glen:

Friends very dear to him he soon will see ;

So pushes off his boat most eagerly.

And soon upon the lake he skins along,

Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song;
Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ;

Nor minds he ihe while swans that dream so sweety, His healthful spirit eager and awake

His spirit flies before him so completely. To feel the beauty of a silent eve,

And now he turns a jutting point of land, Which seem'd full loth this happy world to leave,

Whence may be seen the castle gloomy and grand. 'The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.

Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,

Before the point of his light shallop reaches And smiles at the far clearness all around,

Those marble steps that through the water dip: Until his heart is well-nigh over-wound,

Now over them he goes with hasty trip, And turns for calmness to the pleasant green

And scarcely stays to ope the folding-doors. Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean

Anon he leaps along the oaken tloors

Of halls and corridors. So elegantly o'er the waters' brim And show their blossoms trim. Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow Delicious sounds ! those little bright-eyed things The freaks, and darlings of the black-wing'd swallow, That float about the air on azure wings, Delighting much, to see it half at rest,

Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang Dip so refreshingly its wings and breast

of clattering hoofs; into the court he sprang, 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain, The widening circles into nothing gone.

Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd rein;

While from beneath the threatening portcullis And now the sharp keel of his little boat

They brought their happy burthens. What a kis, Comes up with ripple and with easy float,

What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's band !
And glides into a bed of water-lilies :

How tremblingly their delicate ankles spannd!
Broad-leaved are they, and their white canopies Into how sweet a france his soul was gone,
Are upward turn'd to catch the heaven's dew. While whisperings of atlection
Near to a little island's point they grew ;

Made him delay lo let their tender feet
Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet
Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent:
Went off in gentle windings to the hoar

And whether there were years of languishment, And light-blue mountains : but no breathing man Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their treses, With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan Ile feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye, Objects that look'd out so invitingly

All the soft luxury On either side. Thesc, gentle Calidore

That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand, Greeted, as he had known them long before. Fair as some wonder out of fairy land,

Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers The sidelong view of swelling leasiness,

Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers :
Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress, And this he fondled with his happy cheek,
Whence, ever and anon, the joy outsprings, As if for joy he would no further seek:
And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond

Came to his ear, like something from beyond The lonely lurret, shatter'd, and outworn,

His present being : so he gently drew Stands venerably proud ; too proud to mourn His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new, Its long-lost grandeur: fir-trees grow around, From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground. Thank'd heaven that his joy was never-ending :

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